


Sweet Lightning

by arialsword



Category: My Brother My Brother and Me (Podcast)
Genre: Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Munch Squad, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:30:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arialsword/pseuds/arialsword
Summary: At the Nashville MBMBaM live show, Griffin McElroy made a joke about AO3 fanfic for the new Mountain Dew flavor at KFC. It is my sacred and cursed duty to present some. Featuring a love story between a woman, some fried chicken, and KFC exclusive Mountain Dew, entirely in metaphors because I couldn't bring myself to do anything worse.





	Sweet Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just really sorry, honestly.
> 
> I got this information via a friend who was at the Nashville live show, with minimal clarification; so after having heard the episode, I know that I did the assignment incorrectly, and also Griffin did not want this. I remain committed to the bit.

Even in the early morning, the summer heat already lays heavy and thick in the Ohio valley; a shiftless blanket filling every nook and hollow, pulling fine steam from the deepest waters in the river to vanish in the golden dawn sun. Overnight, June slid into July in that heat haze. Every summer dream drifts along with it like so many dragonflies on the breeze, every promise of freedom stretching indefinitely in the long days, every long road asking to be traveled with a self-assured certainty of new adventures waiting. 

  
    But it is at the end of such a long road that adventures begin as well, as that gold light breaks over the roofs of the buildings and falls to pool at their feet; and a loaded 18-wheeler at the end of an overnight haul pulls into a KFC parking lot.

  
    “It’s here,” the faintest breath of air stirring over the large portrait of an impassive, smiling gentleman seems to whisper. “It’s finally come,” it shivers against the red-and-white striped awnings. 

  
    The new signs were carefully set after closing the night before, the vivid advertisements caressed into place on each window. The anticipation had already hummed for days, deep and low like building bass resonating in every brick. Even now that the long-awaited climax is at hand, there is a way things must be done. Precise. Careful. Gentle. A familiar song in rising harmony, eager for a new refrain.

  
    The truck is met, somewhat more reluctantly, by a bleary manager squinting against the rising daylight.

  
    “Mornin’. Gonna be a hot one again today,” she states without much enthusiasm for her sacred task, already fanning herself around the collar a bit in the warm sun. “You’ll have to come in through the back, if you don’t mind.” 

  
    Whether the driver minded did not much matter, since there was an aproned young employee already waiting at the back door to help lift the weight of work. In quick time the precious cargo comes in with a burst of sunlight and fresh air, a golden halo breaking around it into the still-dim restaurant, bright stars scattering into every corner. It stumbles a bit like a newborn calf dazzled by the world; but rights itself quickly with a helpful hand. 

  
    In the quiet, empty interior, the soda machine is waiting like a shy bride; prime placement scrubbed and ready inside and out, bold labeling freshly applied with a hopeful promise of new flavor for a weary world. 

  
    Golden syrup pours thickly into the waiting receptacle, glistening in the shafts of sunlight that have slipped through the windows. Slow and steady it fills the vessel with its glow. But it’s not complete, no; not yet. It won’t be until that first gentle touch, that first test. 

  
    Everything hangs in stillness for a few minutes against the soft purr of the machine’s motor. Then it’s time. 

  
    The manager slides a cup from the stack with the faintest pop. Ice tumbles bright and cheery into the bottom with a muted roar. She places the cup beneath the nozzle, and with one delicate press activates the machine. Out it flows, fast and brilliant, sweet lightning striking the bottom of the cup in an electric stream, syrup and seltzer intertwining in a swift and fleeting dance as they blend in their race downwards. The liquid buzzes brightly as it meeting the ice. Golden droplets spray against the sides as the level rises, dainty foam rising up to meet the edge. With an expert motion she stops it just before it overflows, only one chill and sparkling droplet escaping to cascade merrily down her hand. 

  
    Carbonation sparks and dances against her lips with the first taste, cool and ripe and sweet as perfect summer fruit, plucked at its prime. A rush of memories rises up as she drinks it down; the tension of cool water breaking and scattering into sunbeams under the ambition of a leap, patchwork shadows cast by trees singing with cicadas, that familiar tingle of first love.

  
    But long and languid as summer days may be, they must be met and matched; and her experience is only half done. She waves over the young employee, who presents her with a platter of freshly fried chicken like a serf laying an offering before his queen.

  
    She takes a bite, ignoring the tiniest dribble of juice bolting down her chin as she breaks past the crisp outside into the flesh; and she savors eleven herbs and spices lacing together into warm nights full of the flicker of fireflies, and flashing fireworks rumbling in young hearts, and the sharp blue air of a storm. 

  
    At last, still air sighs out, long and slow and warm like the manager’s relief as her reverie fades and the workaday world returns. Everything is ready. She glances at the clock, then surveys her domain. The machine is working, the mix is right; the fryers are prepped, the counters glint, the chairs and tables eagerly await their service. She turns away to her other duties. The cup and the plate are discarded, their part in the grand and unending play concluded.

  
    A single drop of condensation winds languidly down the face of the machine, a microcosmic sun glinting and turning in its surface. It is suspended for only an instant, momentarily weightless and perfect, before falling into the  darkness of the drip tray below. 

  
    Outside, the gears of the world run up to speed, stirring the invisible machinery that will carry the customers to their doorstep. 

  
    Soon, everyone comes.


End file.
